Long Live the Queen
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: The queen was dead. Long live the queen.


**Long Live the Queen**

She was home again.

That was the generous way of looking at it, considering what home had become. Once, home was the capital of Lordaeron. The city standing as an edifice to the glory of mankind. The hub of the Alliance. A monument that could be seen from miles away. Now, her home was none of those things. The capital of her ruined homeland was now a subterranean city. The capital of the world above was a graveyard, its ruins standing as gravestones for the fallen. Ghosts, both literal and figurative, roamed its blood-stained paths. And being no fool, she was well aware of the price the Alliance had paid to reclaim it. Thirteen years ago, when her brother had killed their father, and led the Scourge into his home to slaughter his people, the bodies of the fallen had lain where they had been felled, waiting to be risen into a state of undeath. Now, again, the bodies of the newly slain lay where their lives had ended. Awaiting not resurrection, but no burial either. She knew little of how the races of the Horde treated their dead. And now, in this place, in the imperial chamber of the House of Menethil, she wish she did.

How times had changed for her, she reflected. How much had it cost for Calia Menethil to return home?

"How does it feel?"

She didn't answer the question. She continued to stand there, looking at the throne her father had sat himself upon. The throne she had been told she would sit on before the birth of her brother. The throne that he himself had never rested in, instead claiming a throne of ice and steel in the far north. Not even the Dark Lady herself had ruled the Forsaken from here, instead making her throne deep below this one. What Sylvanas Windrunner was doing now, she couldn't say. Probably on her way to Orgrimmar to plan her next move in this war.

"Calia?"

"Princess, Calia," she murmured, as her visitor came to stand beside her. She looked at him. "Or is that queen now?"

Genn Greymane snorted as only a worgen could. Even now, she could see the man he had once been. The man who had been dragged kicking and screaming into the Alliance at the outset of the Second War. The man who, with just as much pride, had withdrawn his nation from the body her father had created. The man who was now perhaps Anduin's closest ally. For all the wars Azeroth had suffered, for all the reasons behind those conflicts, the saying that war made for strange bedfellows apparently rang true.

"We may answer that in time," Genn said.

 _We?_ Calia wondered. _Who is_ we _, Genn?_

She didn't ask the question. Even if she had, she knew that the former ruler of Gilneas wouldn't answer. She noticed that he was having trouble making eye contact with her. With even looking at her. In most cases, she would take that as a sign of dishonesty, but she knew the truth. Understood it even. She knew what she was. What she had become. Undead. Abomination. Forsaken.

 _Am I?_

She was the first of those three things. The second was down to one's own view, and for all the help Faol had given her, she could not deny that she missed the joys of life. The touch of wind on her skin, the taste of food and drink, the smell of a world more alive than she was. And the third? Forsaken? Who could answer that?

"What of the prisoners?" she asked. She had a more pressing question to ask.

Genn grunted, and began to pace around the chamber. "Being treated with amnesty. They will be held. Fed. Watered."

She frowned. "You disapprove?"

Genn didn't answer. He didn't have to.

"Alright," Calia said. "Then let me ask about my people."

This time, he looked at her. "Your people?"

"Yes, Genn, my people. The Forsaken. Those who remain here, and have not followed the Dark Lady across the Great Sea."

"Are these the same people who fought to defend their…city?" Genn asked, putting undue emphasis on "city." "The same that marched with the Horde to burn Teldrassil to the ground?"

"Some, perhaps. Not all." Genn opened his mouth, but she beat him to it. "I know and understand your feelings Genn, but I would like to imagine that even now, you would distinguish between the guilty and innocent."

"In my years of life, Lady Calia, I have found that distinction to be more and more blurred." He frowned. "And sometimes, it isn't there at all."

"But is it here?" Calia asked.

Genn didn't say anything. He just stood there. He was easily a head taller than her, and for the first time, Calia felt cowed. She knew that he wouldn't harm her - his hatred for the undead was not that deep – but still, she felt out of place. She'd never fought. Never ruled. She had been felled by Sylvanas's arrow, and been resurrected by Anduin himself. Left in Netherlight Temple before returning to her homeland.

"It may be here, it may not," Genn murmured. "But that is not why I've come here."

She frowned. "Is there a reason why it is you who are here, and not Anduin?"

Genn didn't say anything for a moment. He crossed his large, furry arms. The claws were out. It wasn't a threat, but the message was still clear – "hold your tongue and let me speak."

"Lady Calia…"

She did hold her tongue.

"You asked whether it was princess or queen," Genn said. "Would you like to know the answer?"

She nodded.

"As you stand now, you are only a princess," Genn said. "The right of succession was to your brother. As horrific as his actions were, the title of queen was never passed to you. And of course, there is no Menethil left to do so."

"I'm aware of that," she murmured.

"Still, there is an order of things to the world, where people may be made rulers by those who rule currently," he said. "So I can ask, what if you were to be made queen? Calia Menethil, steward and protector of Lordaeron?"

She tried to keep a straight face, and given how atrophied her muscles were, that was surprisingly easy. "You would have me as a queen? An undead abomination?"

"My eyes have been widened in recent times," Genn said. "Through one, I see the Dark Lady, and the wretches who follow her." He paused – Calia could tell that he was only just managing to keep his anger in check. "Through the other, you. Calia Menethil. The one who Sylvanas Windrunner called usurper in the Arathi Highlands. The one who I say should be queen of Lordaeron."

"A dead kingdom," Calia said.

"A dead kingdom," Genn agreed. "But titles have a power of their own. I can indulge the belief, nay, hope, that there are Forsaken here who would follow you. I can hope further that there are those who fled this land who may return to rebuild their lives." He paused. "I can never say I was close to your father, Calia, nor this kingdom. But it would do my heart good to see this land and its people restored."

"And which people do we speak of?" Calia asked. "The ones who would call me Forsaken? Or the ones who would call me abomination?"

The question was more simple than the subject at hand, and she knew it. Or at least, hoped it was. She hoped that there would be Forsaken who would follow her. In life or death, Lordaeron was their home. She likewise hoped that the living would return to rebuild the land alongside their loved ones. Hadn't the meeting at the Arathi Highlands demonstrated that that kind of future was possible? The Dark Lady was a continent away now. Without her influence, surely there was a future for her kingdom. A path forward into the light.

"There is another matter though, that goes beyond hope, or people," Genn said.

 _You're not answering my question._

"And that is the matter that the Alliance plans to march on Quel'Thalas."

She blinked, rotting eyelids temporarily covering rotting eyes. "Quel'Thalas?"

"The last bastion of the Horde on this continent," Genn continued. "You may know little of the ways of war Calia-"

 _Don't patronise me._

"-but any action we take must be made with a secure flank. And while naming you queen of Lordaeron is not the be all and end all of this, titles have a power of their own. With you as queen, we send a message to all of Azeroth. That Lordaeron is ours. That Queen Calia Menethil has retaken the throne twice usurped."

"While we continue our war against the elves," Calia said. "I know my history Genn. Within my own lifetime, we marched to Quel'Thalas to defend it. Within our history, human and elf stood side by side to protect it."

"And alliances have shifted," Genn grunted. "That is why Anduin is entreating Kul Tiras to join us, while I secure the north." He paused. "With your help, of course."

She didn't say anything. She did nothing but turn away from the man turned beast before her, her glowing eyes coming to rest upon the throne. She was not naive. She knew that the world had changed over the past decade. That it made perfect sense to march against Quel'Thalas before undertaking any other action. And yet, she could not deny her sorrow. Her heart, long stopped beating, as not above feeling the stones of ill fortune that fate cast her way.

"I will give you time to think of course," Genn said. "I expect you have much to take in after-"

"I'll do it," she whispered.

She heard Genn say something, but his words barely reached her ears. Instead, her eyes were on the throne. On the seat of power of a kingdom dead. Of a kingdom that would be reborn with, or without her. On the edifice that was her birthright. She would do it for the good of her kingdom. For the good of her people. Even for the good of the Alliance. She felt (as best an undead could) Genn's hand come down on her shoulder.

"I am please, Calia," he said sombrely. "And while it may be ill fitting to speak for him, I daresay your father would as well."

Calia laughed, the sound coming out as a dry rasp. Here was where her father had died. Where her brother had fully cast aside his humanity. Where she would have to fill the void that both of them had left.

"The queen is dead," she whispered. "Long live the queen."

In silence, she walked forward.

In silence, she took the throne.

* * *

 _A/N_

 _So, in light of the events of_ Before the Storm _and_ Battle for Azeroth _, I'm hazarding a guess that Calia becomes queen of Lordaeron (such as it is), considering that the Forsaken lose the Undercity to the Alliance. Course that's a big guess since there's notable obstacles standing in her way, but in light of such a possibility, drabbled this up._


End file.
